A Friend and Foe of Mine
by Silver-Winged Bird
Summary: AU. Alfred F. Jones is in the militia during the war of 1754. He wanders off to meet the British soldier Arthur Kirkland, who welcomes him as his friend. Does this man know something that predicts the future of America and its ties to Great Britain?


Part 1

Alfred F. Jones leaned against the trunk of the tree he hid behind, gasping for air and dropping to his knees. He took in a faint breath of air and leaned against the tree, adjusting his uniform and holding his long musket to his chest. His dusty blond hair stuck to his face as if hanging on for dear life, his thick sapphire uniform pulling him down into the soggy mud underneath his feet. The ruthless rain came pouring onto the vast greenery of the American forest, drenching everything in sight. The teenage boy sat on his bottom, not caring how wet his clothing became. He could not tell if he was hot with sweat or shivering with cold. His feet ached and his muscles tensed from the long struggle of the Seven Years War he fought.

Why was he dragged into the bloody pits of hell? Why was he involved in a conflict with nations he didn't really know well?

For all he knew, he was in an army whose mere purpose was to assist an "ally," the Great British Empire, in its struggle to fight off its many enemies in a seemingly pointless battle. Alfred was a resident in America, the wealthiest of Great Britain's colonies in the mid eighteenth century.

The teenager finally regulated his breathing and fought to return to his feet. Why was he sapped of so much strength?

It must have been due to exhaustion.

The teenager flinched as soon as a rumble pierced through the thick silence from his stomach. He was famished, starving, even. The last time he had eaten anything was, what, two to three days ago? He needed food, and fast.

"But where do I find food?" He found himself asking particularly no one. He cocked his head up to the sky, his face dowsed in water from the pouring skies above him. "There's no one here but me."

As if on cue, Alfred heard humming. It was a deep voice humming an unfamiliar tune, one from a man in his early adulthood. It sounded just softly behind the tree the boy hid behind, letting him know that he was far from alone.

Was it the enemy? Was he French, or Prussian, or Spanish?

Or was he one of the British allies?

Again, Alfred's belly growled, demanding to be fed. He flinched once more and wrapped his arms around his abdomen, attempting to silence its boisterous complaints. "Shut up, you damned gut!" he swore vehemently. "I'd eat if I had the chance! You know that!"

"Who's there?"

Alfred jumped and shivered from the sudden outburst from the once humming voice of a man in front of the tree. He had released his hiding spot to the enemy... First things first… Was the man an enemy or an ally?

"Come out here! Whoever is hiding, I demand you relinquish your hiding place and come out!"

The man was angry. Alfred swallowed his saliva and leaned against the tree nervously. How could he tell if this fellow was friend or foe?

Oh yes! The accent! He could distinguish the accent!

… But how did a British accent sound like? What letters sounded different between a Frenchman's and an Englishman's? He had never talked to a Frenchman before in his life.

Damn. He was back to square one.

"I said show yourself! Come out before I shoot!"

Alfred panicked. This guy was going to kill him! He didn't even know this soldier, and he was already freaking out for his life. What was he to do? Come out and reveal himself to this unknown lad? Or stay behind and hope he'd sneak away from ambush?

Either way, he jeopardized being killed.

As if answering to the adolescent's thoughts, the soldier in front of the tree released a sigh and a dull thud sounded just after. "Alright, how about we compromise? You may come out, and I will not shoot. Be you a Frenchman, a Prussian, a Spaniard, or a Briton; I will not shoot. I have even dropped my musket to the floor."

Alfred blinked. The chap agreed to let him leave? He let the risk of Alfred being the enemy pass just to see his face?

How… courageous.

Well, the child had nothing left to lose now, right?

Slowly and gradually, Alfred stepped out from the safety of the shadows and into the line of sight of the other man. He finally raised his eyes to meet that of the other person's, and paused.

The stunned look of the blond man seemed to catch his attention. Not only was he with bright blond messy hair, but his emerald eyes stood out in the dark grays of the skies, shining under what little moonlight leaked from the thick clouds. Alfred squinted to make out more of his features. He was clad in crimson uniform, and he had very thick eyebrows, which Alfred would have teased had ne not starved up to this point. He was a strange looking person.

From the looks of it, he had a camp out here in the forest all to himself. There was a small shelter from the rain that was indeed sturdy, and the only sign of a dry sanctuary in the middle of the wet lands. Under that shelter was a lively warm campfire, the flames dancing vividly among the charred logs. The smell of smoke and meat, chicken, to be exact, made its way across Alfred's nose and dispersed in the rain.

His eyes made their way back to meet the other soldier's, and blinked to find the man smiling in what looked like relief.

"Ah, thank goodness! You are an ally," he sighed and offered a hand for Alfred to shake. "You are an American, are you not?"

Alfred, not knowing what to say, nodded slowly.

"I am one of the British. My name is Arthur Kirkland." The man named Arthur kept his hand extended. "What is your name?"

Alfred finally brought up the strength to lift his own hand and shake Arthur's in a formal greeting. "… Alfred F. Jones."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jones."

"Just Alfred is fine," The American locked his eyes on the meat that cooked over the fire.

"Very well," Arthur lowered his hand and slightly frowned as he noticed Alfred's attention was on something else. He turned around and let his eyes follow the American soldier's line of sight, and his smile returned upon realizing what the boy was gazing at. "Ah, so you are hungry. Would you like some of my food?"

Alfred snapped from his daydream and shook his head rapturously. "Sorry! I didn't mean to stare! Um, no thank you, I'll be fine."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "You seem rather famished. You're gaunt in the face and thin inside that uniform of yours. Not to mention, you're clad in dirt and your hair misplaced in all angles. You also wear such heavy bags under your eyes. Tell me, lad," he reached for his flintlock musket and set it aside, "when was the last time you received proper food, rest, and a bath?"

Alfred, ashamed at how dirty he looked compared to the Briton, lowered his gaze and blushed. "… I don't remember. The last time I've eaten was at least two days ago."

The British soldier smiled to himself and motioned him towards the shelter. "Make yourself at home, lad. How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

Arthur frowned. "You're very young. Why were you drafted so soon?"

"Beats me," Alfred sighed, feeling his legs underneath him shake. He didn't want to continue standing, since he was long depleted of energy, but he didn't want to just run to the food and eat it all. "I don't like being in war."

"You're exhausted, aren't you, child?" Arthur smiled a bit sadly, pitying the boy. "How many people have you killed?"

"None, thankfully," the American forced a smile on his face. "I couldn't possibly bear the weight knowing I have the blood of a soldier dirtying my hands."

"It is painful," Arthur muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "But perhaps we can continue the conversation over dinner. Like you, I'm famished myself."

Alfred began to stumble over his own words and blurted out, "Y-you don't need to worry about me! I'll be ok! I'm not that hungry!"

His stomach emitted a loud growl, defiantly deeming the American's statement false. The young soldier cringed and held his belly to silence it, and then felt his face flush a deep crimson red. His eyes snaked their way to meet the green irises of the Briton, who looked quite amused.

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur laughed, giving the teen a smug smirk. "It looks to me your stomach has been begging to be fed."

Alfred's ears burned as he released his abdomen. "… Yeah, I'm starving."

"Well, don't just stand there," Arthur motioned him to the campsite. "Come with me."

Alfred nodded and let his musket drag on the floor as he followed the British man under the shelter. He plopped onto the floor and immediately began to massage his feet. He felt extremely filthy, but there was no place to go and bathe without being caught by enemy soldiers was there? Compared to Arthur, Alfred looked like a pig that had finished basking in the sun covered in mud. The ally did look tidy and neat, but he was far from healthy.

Arthur seemed to have pitied Alfred in return. "You poor thing. Look at you; you look very crippled and fatigued." He reached for a stick with a large juicy piece of chicken on it from the fire and handed it to Alfred. "Here you are."

Alfred glanced at the chicken and then back to Arthur. "But, that's all of your food, isn't it? I won't be eating all of it, will I?"

Arthur chuckled softly and took a seat in front of the flames. "I have some more left," the Brit lied, knowing all too well the scarcity of food amongst the hardships of war. "Please take it. Think of it as a token of our friendship."

Alfred's eyes brightened like a child's when given candy. "Thanks!" He gratefully took the stick and chomped away at the meat. "This is really good!"

The smell of chicken was abundant in the air, and Arthur began to regret lying to the boy in hopes that Alfred would share some of the food with him.

But what's done is done, Arthur thought with a solemn smile. He shook his hair of droplets of water and stripped himself of his damp scarlet jacket. "So, tell me, lad. Where are you from?"

"New York," Alfred answered through swallows. Without any sense of manners, he talked through the food in his mouth, "How 'bout you?"

"England," the soldier replied, grimacing at the rude sight. He still smiled and continued, "I had lived in Scotland for a few years with my mother and three brothers, and then lived in England until I was impressed into the army." He gazed into the fire with a sober gaze. "Instead of fighting in Europe, I was shipped all the way to America."

Alfred gulped the food down and glanced at Arthur. "Where's Europe? I know Great Britain is there, but where is it, exactly?"

Arthur grinned. "It's a whole ocean away from here. You would have to get there by boat, but, hell, I get ill on boats easily." He slipped off his boots and stretched out his toes towards the fire to warm them up. "My feet are aching so badly. I don't remember the last time I had relaxed since this war had broken loose."

Alfred frowned and nibbled on the last scraps of the meat. "You mean to tell me you haven't taken a real break since the war started?"

"Exactly," Arthur nodded, letting the water pour out of the boots and into the fire. "I'm planning to get a few days' worth of rest, and then leave off again for battle. That is, if my commander doesn't find me slacking on the job." He finished the statement in a fit of chuckles.

Alfred ate the last piece of meat and tossed the stick into the crackling flames. "I want to ask you the same question you asked me earlier. How many people have you killed?"

Arthur blinked at the question with a perplexed expression plastered on his face, and then gave the boy a sad smile. "I lost count after ten. It's tragic to have someone die, but it's ten times worse to bear the fact that you had taken their life away."

Alfred immediately felt guilty and held up his hands. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you so uncomfortable!" He hung his head in shame and twiddled his thumbs anxiously. "… Sorry."

Arthur merely laughed and wiggled his toes near the flames. "It's not a problem. No need to kick yourself in the rear for it. It happens." He waited to get eye contact from the American before asking, "Have you gotten shot before?"

"Nope," Alfred licked his lips to take in the last lingering taste of the chicken. "Have you?"

"Once," Arthur chuckled and showed him the scar on his left arm approaching his shoulder. "It was a graze, but it was indeed deep. Luckily it didn't lodge itself into my bone, or else I would have lost the entire arm."

Alfred cringed and crawled onto his knees to examine the scab more closely. "Oh wow… It was like a knife wound, but with a bullet… That's freaky."

Arthur blinked at the child's strange choice of words, but smiled nonetheless and tossed a small pebble into the crackling fire. "How long have you lived here in America? We're you born here?"

"I've lived here my entire life," Alfred chirped, slipping off his own jacket and letting it sit by the heat of the flames to dry. "I lived in Lexington for some time before traveling back to New York, but by that time I was drafted into the militia."

"What a shame," Arthur responded with a sound of pity in his voice. "I bet you put up a resistance, did you not?"

"Hell yeah I did," Alfred grinned, and stood on his feet. "I'm the hero! If anything, I should serve my country by myself! Since when does a hero rely on backup? He doesn't need the help of others to save-?"

Alfred's lecture on heroes and their valiant actions was interrupted by an uncanny grumble from Arthur's stomach. He paused to eye the Briton's cheeks flush and his body slightly curl into a ball in embarrassment.

"… A thousand apologies, Alfred," he chuckled nervously, avoiding eye contact with the American. "… I haven't eaten all day."

Alfred laughed in amusement and dropped back down onto his bottom. "Well, you have some more chicken, right? I'll fire it up for you!"

Arthur felt his body stiffen and he looked away, aware that he was going to have to admit he lied to the lad.

Alfred was quick to pick up Arthur's insecurity through his silence. "Something wrong, Artie?"

"My name is Arthur, Alfred," Arthur muttered half to himself before glancing back at the American with mustered courage. "I… lied to you. I have no food left for myself. I gave it all to you."


End file.
